


Abnormal Psychology

by volunteerfd



Category: Daredevil (TV), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:03:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley is drawn to Frederick Chilton. Wesley's sure he'll forget everything he dislikes about the doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me how this happened, but reviews are appreciated. Just...don't ask me how this happened.

Frederick Chilton carries himself like a small man trying to make the world think he’s a big man and failing. Wesley never met a small man who succeeded at it.

Oh, but Chilton’s ego is big, bloated with an inferiority complex wrapped around a superiority complex wrapped around an inferiority complex and so on, without end, until his self-conception is a twisted tumor of neuroses.

The important thing is, can he write? Well, no. Wesley read Hannibal the Cannibal and found himself choking on the scent of flowery prose. Wesley cut him some slack at first: the book was true crime, aimed at the masses who wanted lurid details in a style that an infant could digest.

Then Wesley heard the man speak and realized he practically climaxed at his own brilliance with every word he read. No, the cheap writing wasn’t a gimmick. It was Chilton’s idea of genius.

Wesley folded himself into a Barnes and Noble folding chair, next to an unruly toddler and his mother. Crossed one leg over another because there was very little space. A good turn out.

Did the mothers really need to bring kids, though?

Chilton stood at a podium, talking about his credentials (like those meant anything to his audience). At least he was a handsome man, interesting features that shouldn’t be attractive but were. Very. Grey-green bedroom eyes, a stern and smug countenance, perpetually brooding. And he looked good in a suit. His clothes were good but could be better, Wesley thought, mentally dressing him. An Armani silk tie around his…anything.

He announced he would sign books. Of course. It was, after all, a book signing. That was all he did. No chit-chat, friendly or otherwise, just running his pen across a page like an assembly line.

“Big fan,” Wesley said. He strategically placed himself as the last person, after all those middle-aged housewives and their toddlers in tow, the weird teenagers who sulked in their seats, riveted by guts and gore. Dr. Chilton stacked his papers together, but when he glanced up at Wesley, he saw he was facing down a very well-dressed 6’2 man. He stood up, as if it would make a difference. The good doctor assessed if Wesley was kidding, decided he was not, and asked, “Can I sign something?”

“I would be grateful.”

Chilton kept glancing up at Wesley, as if expecting a threat. No wonder, with all the man had been through. Wesley had to admit that his own demeanor didn’t help. He could have gone for the affable approach but he got the feeling it would not work well on Dr. Chilton, so he went for slightly sleazy, just like the doctor himself.

“Who should I make this out to?”

“Wesley. Um, James Wesley.”

Chilton snorted at the accidental allusion; Wesley cringed.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“I was wondering,” Wesley chose his next words carefully. Chilton was guarded. “If you would mind grabbing a cup of coffee with me. The book was–I would like to pick your brain about writing.”

Something akin to horror flashed in Chilton’s eyes.

“I apologize. My phrasing,” Wesley pressed his eyes shut, “could have been better.”

Perhaps it was because, for once, Wesley’s contrition was genuine, but Chilton softened.

“Yes, it could have.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set a few months after the first part when their relationship is fairly established. Wesley is worried about Chilton, and Chilton knows nothing about Wesley's job, which isn't a problem until it is.

With the hype behind Hannibal Lecter (aka, Hannibal Lecter (c)) worn out, Frederick began work on his new book about the Tooth Fairy. Frederick would occasionally ask for Wesley's advice about words and phrasing, reading lurid scene after lurid scene aloud. True crime was not Wesley's preference. He had enough true crime during his job, and true crime novels tended to be even gorier and id-satisfying than what he got from Fisk.

On the other hand, Frederick's voice was soft and soothing. His private reading voice was completely different than his public book reading voice: actual care for his craft, less pomposity. Wesley was pleased to find out that some of the most of the egregious floral prose from Hannibal the Cannibal (c) was a ploy to draw in the "hoi polloi," in Chilton's words, and that he would be, again in his words, "gardening for this one." 

The one thing Frederick did not ask for feedback about was his title. Wesley found sheets of papers with puns crossed out. Sheets of them. Sheets and sheets of them. The Tooth Fairy murders provided fodder for tons of puns. After finding the sheets lying around, Wesley asked Frederick "Have you thought of a title yet?" And Frederick lied, respectably straight-faced, and told him he doesn't think of a title until the book is done.

They sat in companionable silence, each nursing a glass of wine, Frederick occasionally reading a new passage.

“I think I can carve out a name for myself as a true crime writer, no? I can’t decide if I want to wind up high-brow or low-brow but…”

"Just don't get too close this time," Wesley said. For once, he understood Fisk's protective tendencies. Other than Fisk, Wesley never felt this depth of feeling for anyone, and Fisk could certainly take care of himself, at least physically. Wesley worried about Fisk’s business, his emotional state, his comfort, his happiness, but never his life. Frederick, on the other hand, was luckless and vulnerable. None of his survival was due to any physical strength or fortitude, but to sheer dumb luck. Two unbelievable near-death experiences and this arrogance...well, third time’s the charm. "I don't want anything bad to happen to you." He forced the words out as if they were the infamous three little ones, but they meant (he realized, with a thick swallow) the same thing. 

"Anything worse, you mean?" If Frederick noticed anything amiss in Wesley’s voice, he chose to hide it. More likely, he didn't notice. He just corrected Wesley with a wry, amused smile.

"Anything worse," Wesley agreed, grateful to be redirected back to emotional distance.

"Yes, well. Since Baltimore’s so dangerous, maybe I should move to New York.”

The suggestion hung in the air. Wesley’s agreement could change the course of their relationship, but, more likely, end Frederick’s life. Frederick knew nothing about Wesley’s job, other than it was intensive and secretive, that Wesley had the power and money to fly to Baltimore more than a normal person could (or would want to), but that Wesley kept odd hours, had to constantly be on call and also needed to fly back at a moment’s notice, should the need arise. 

Frederick never seemed to mind. He was coolly distant, more than Wesley was because at least Wesley had his undying attachment to Fisk. Of course, the beginning of their relationship was marked by Frederick’s justified suspicion. He had dealt with serial killers; Wesley was sly and oddly private. Eventually, Frederick grew to trust him, and never once pushed for closeness. The suggestion to move to New York was quite unexpected, and Wesley could not allow it to happen. It was unlikely that Fisk’s right-hand man’s boyfriend would be targeted more than Wesley would be, but this was Frederick Chilton, after all, who seemed to be a magnet for bullets and informal colonoscopies. 

"That is not a great idea."

"I see," Frederick darkened. Obviously, they needed to talk. 

"It's not like that." Wesley emphasized each words as if he could force Frederick to believe them through sheer power of articulation.

"Then what," Frederick mimicked Wesley's clipped tone, "is it like?" 

Wesley never forgot that Frederick could be snarky--their shared sass was a pillar of their relationship, and Frederick’s most endearing talent--but Wesley had forgotten that Frederick could be snarky to him. That’s what made Wesley realize that this was their first fight. Frederick was a fussy, finicky man, but somehow Wesley managed to avoid being the target of that side of him. Until now.

“My job, if you haven’t noticed, is very secret,” Wesley, against his better judgment, snarked right back.

“I hadn’t noticed. You talk about it all the time. You’re a commercial fisherman, no?”

Somehow, too, Wesley managed to avoid the psychologist’s relentless probing, insatiable curiosity. Perhaps it was because he saw Wesley as an equal, not as he saw everyone else: as a subject for study. So Wesley was allowed to have his secrets, and Frederick accepted it without issue. 

“My job is dangerous,” Wesley said, cutting straight to the point. 

“And you’re worried for my safety if I move to New York? What, are you a mob boss? Spider-Man?” 

They looked at each other, and realization bloomed in Frederick’s face. Wesley’s face didn’t change, but it was the hardest-won poker face of a lifetime of poker faces.

“You are, aren’t you? A criminal?” It took Wesley a moment to realize that Frederick’s tone was one of fascination. Wesley shifted; he did not like to fascinate a psychologist. “And you’re worried for my safety. And I’m making you shift.” Wesley hadn’t noticed, but he had shifted again. 

“Excellent observations, doctor. Am I to be the subject of your next book?” 

“Only if you want to be,” Frederick shrugged. Wesley was glad he found it funny. It beat alternatives. Frederick was now back to his current book, the Tooth Fairy, Then his brow furrowed. Perhaps he was trying to think of a certain word. 

“If you’re worried about my safety in New York, shouldn’t you be worried about your own?”

“My employer keeps me well-protected.”

“Does he, now,” Frederick murmured. Whatever answer he wanted, it was not that one. “I think we should put a placeholder in this conversation.”

“Are you couples counseling us?” Wesley raised an eyebrow at him. Suddenly, the flavor of the wine returned back to its original pleasantness. 

“Lord, I hope not. Now, how does this sound...”


End file.
